Dusty Wright's Culture Catch - Smart Pop Culture, Video & Audio podcasts, Written Reviews in the Arts & Entertainment

One for the Road, Man

Chet Kozlowski — Sat, 14 Jun 2025 10:18:40 +0000

One for the Road, Man Chet Kozlowski June 14, 2025 - 06:18

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Cheech & Chong’s Last Movie is a sweet surprise, a late-stage rumination on a joint (no pun intended) career that had its highs (pun intended) and lows. Cheech and Chong are old now. In their heyday, their name was synonymous with a brand of stoner comedy that rode the first wave of improv. Their Last Movie takes us back to a tumultuous time.

The film is not plot-driven. It’s two guys driving through the desert, laughing and arguing and reminiscing. Their meanderings thread through a collage of newsreels, live shows, talking heads, interviews, and animations. They also dip into their private stash of never-before-seen footage. We ride along as they careen through the 1960s and 70s, political slash social revolution, Motown, the draft years, hippie culture, Hollywood, MTV and, finally, redemption.

Richard “Cheech” Marin grew up being the only Chicano in school, where he was popular because of his uniqueness. He used humor as self-defense against an overbearing father, who one acquaintance called “the most even-tempered man I ever met: always angry.” Cheech took up pottery, kicked around Canada and wrote for Poppin magazine, their Rolling Stone.

Tommy Chong was born to Chinese and Canadian parents. In his early 20s, he married Maxine and had a family, settling into domesticity. “That’s where I spent my time: raising kids and being happy.” Chong played guitar with Bobby Taylor and the Vancouvers, which led to Motown, popular recordings and eventually ownership of a stripper bar that he turned into an improv club.

That’s where Cheech and Chong’s destinies converged. Comedy albums and live shows came next, then the hit movie Up in Smoke. The rest is history. More risks, more movies, Grammys, worldwide fame.

Cheech & Chong’s Last Movie is a lot of miles to cover. We zip by the likes of Stokely Carmichael and David Harris, marvel at an adolescent Michael Jackson, give LSD guru Timothy Leary a part in a movie, and get grilled by Geraldo Rivera (these interviews are a revelation: in contrast to the oblivious characters they play, we see two confident, ambitious strivers who are clearly enjoying their moment). Ghosts from the past appear in the backseat of their car, like Tommy’s wife, Maxine, and music impresario Lou Adler.

Cheech & Chong’s Last Movie is directed by David Bushell, whose previous documentary was I Needed Color, about Jim Carrey. He produced Sling Blade and, with Judd Apatow, Get Him to the Greek. Here he works with editor Brett Mason and animator James Blagden.

While Cheech & Chong’s Last Movie is a celebration, it doesn’t shy away from the failures and disappointments, the raging egos, bad business deals, and embarrassments, like their bid for film legitimacy, the satire of Dumas’ The Corsican Brothers, after what Cheech calls the “amiable messes” of their earlier movies.

Cheech and Chong’s story is a classic tale of rise and fall, and success built on luck and hubris. They were the perfect comedy voice for the counterculture. And just like the counterculture, they couldn’t last.

The title Cheech & Chong’s Last Movie can be read as a eulogy. It’s poignant to see the two old guys on the shoulder of the highway, bickering, and spot a roadside bar in the middle of nowhere. They walk in arm in arm, two amigos. The place is called The Joint.

Pun intended.

______________________________

Cheech & Chong’s Last Movie. Directed by David Bushell. 2025. Runtime 120 minutes.

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Bigfoot and Then Some

Chet Kozlowski — Thu, 12 Jun 2025 18:48:05 +0000

Bigfoot and Then Some Chet Kozlowski June 12, 2025 - 14:48

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Film Review

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mockumentary

In this age of fake news and life-altering events, the mockumentary genre has taken a hit. How do you apply absurdity as a comic device when the ordinary life around you is increasingly absurd? But filmmakers keep trying. From This is Spinal Tap to TV’s The Office and What We Do in the Shadows, the irony comes from the point of view of a well-meaning film crew.

A few recent mocks have deserved attention, and one is Found Footage: The Making of the Patterson Project. The premise is fun: novice movie makers set out into the woods to make a horror film about Bigfoot and get more than they bargained for. While there are some hilarious bits, that conceit ends up taking a backseat to more conventional scares.

The story concerns Chase Bradner (Brennan Keel Cook), a film nerd who has several shorts to his credit, with titles like “Tongue Tied” and “Locked in the Closet.” Chase collects film memorabilia (like the plastic bag from American Beauty and items thrown by Bullseye in Daredevil) and is now ready to realize a more expansive vision. Mr. Clark’s sharp features, precise comic timing, and Irish setter shock of red hair make Chase an appealing protagonist.

Chase’s first feature will be called The Patterson Project, after the photographer who first captured the blurry image of the creature known as Bigfoot. The filming will be recorded by a French documentarian, Rochelle Dupont (Marie Paquim), for Le Musée d’Orange (all of them made-up names treated with deadpan austerity). Chase’s project is a complicated one. While he’s being filmed, he will film a story being filmed by the lead actor. So Found Footage is a movie about a movie about a movie. You can’t get much more meta than that.

Chase’s crew includes his bubbly girlfriend Natalie (Erika Vetter), who offers her parents’ timeshare cabin as a location, his earnest best friend Mitch (Chen Tang), and his nervous financier Frank (Dean Cameron), for whose furniture outlet stores Chase has shot commercials. Some funny confusion is milked about Chase thinking he’s signed Daniel Radcliffe to star and Alan Rickman being cast to appease an elderly investor, despite his being deceased. We follow the creation of the Bigfoot suit, but it’s replaced by a character whose face is covered in mo-cap (motion capture) dots for reasons that would ruin the joke if I described them here.

If it isn’t obvious, Found Footage’s humor is pretty esoteric, but for those who get the in-jokes, it’s fun. The plot tangentially involves the Bigfoot quest, but becomes morbid in a Blair Witch Project sort of way. The issue is the creepy cabin, a sealed room, and a book of satanic incantations that lead us in a new direction. Evil Dead 2 fans will be on familiar ground, but the publicity and poster aren’t necessarily aimed at them. The generalized title and film stills of Chase in the Bigfoot suit might leave some viewers feeling baited and switched. It’s a little like ordering salad and getting goulash.

Found Footage is directed by Max Tzannes, who, like Chase, is a maker of shorts, and whose previous feature Et Tu (2023) is similarly about observing observers. He works from a script co-written with David San Miguel, who also supplies the music.

For the most part, Found Footage works. The setups are well-conceived and get solid laughs. The characters are endearing and poignant as we get to know them. All the ensemble is worth noting, but standouts include Rachel Alig (Daniella), Del Alan Murphy (Pete), Christian T. Chan (Alan), and Chelsea Gilson (Sarah Susan). They are so endearing as characters that some might find their fate disturbing.

________________________________

Found Footage: The Making of the Patterson Project. Directed by Max Tzannes. 2025. From Radio Silence Productions. Runtime 100 minutes.

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Instant Ono!

Ian Alterman — Mon, 09 Jun 2025 21:08:24 +0000

Instant Ono! Ian Alterman June 9, 2025 - 17:08

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Book Review

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biography

[N.B. Ninety-five percent of this review is sourced directly from the book. The other 5% is sourced from two or three other authoritative books about the Beatles, which were necessary for one or two explications in the review.]

I cannot think of any woman in any profession -- from the arts to sciences, from politics to religion, and beyond -- more vilified, dismissed, denigrated, demeaned, and even outright hated than Yoko Ono. Sadly, all of this is the result of a toxic brew of ignorance (general, musical, historical, artistic) and racism. It is also borne of myths (and sometimes outright lies) that still remain remarkably broad-based despite an overwhelming body of facts and evidence to the contrary -- even when that evidence is provided by those to whom the myths and/or lies are ascribed. I have heard everything from "she broke up the Beatles" (a tick-like persistent myth) to "she can't sing worth a damn," to "she had no influence or particular fame in the art world" to "she was only ever famous because she married John." All of this, coming mostly from people who have no particularly deep knowledge of either music (beyond pop/rock) or art (at all), particularly vis-à-vis history, and even less knowledge of Yoko and her own life story.

Certainly, people have a right to like and listen to what they want, and to most Western (read American) ears, dissonance of any sort can be difficult, if not off-putting. So what has often been called Yoko's "caterwauling" vocals can be jarring to the Western ear, particularly when you are not a musician trained in theory and history and/or have little or no background in either -- particularly the various avant-garde music movements, primarily of the 50s, 60s, and 70s. For example, pick 50 random people on the street and I would bet a dollar to a dime that 49 of them have never heard of either 12-tone music or Arnold Schoenberg. Or John Cage. Or Edgar Varese. And names like Karlheinz Stockhausen, Iannis Xenakis, and Arvo Part would simply make them laugh.

That said, some of the modern composers who were aware of Yoko's vocalizations (even prior to her meeting John), recognized them as more than just "caterwauling" or "screaming," and understood them in the context of modern and avant-garde music include John Cage (with whom she worked several times), Philip Glass, Steve Reich, Arvo Part, and Brian Eno. Even Igor Stravinsky and Krzysztof Penderecki were aware of and appreciated the chance she was taking in bringing aleatoric (chance) elements to her vocalizing. And John came to understand this fairly early on as well (though it took the other Beatles much longer).

By the time she was recording albums with John (and then solo) some of the popular music artists who saw her as an inspiration, influence and/or a pioneer -- many of whom collaborated with her and/or covered songs from her albums -- include Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth (both of whom recognized the importance of what she was doing long before any other "pop/rock" music artists), Patti Smith, Laurie Anderson, Frank Zappa, Lady Gaga, RZA and Wu-Tang Clan, Kate Pierson and the B-52s (the background vocals in "Rock Lobster" are essentially what Yoko had been doing for years), David Byrne and Talking Heads, Lene Lovich, Ringo Starr, David Bowie, Elton John, Madonna, Roberta Flack, Harry Nilsson, Elvis Costello, Rosanna Cash, Cyndi Lauper, Joey Ramone, Lou Reed, The Melvins, Mike D and the Beastie Boys, Kurt Cobain and Nirvana, Courtney Love, Redd Kross, Eric Clapton, Jim Keltner, Klaus Voorman, Paul Simon, Peaches, Michael Stipe, Rufus and Martha Wainwright, Iggy Pop and the Stooges, Savages, Boy George, Pussy Riot, Siouxsie Sioux, Marianne Faithful, Questlove, Death Cab for Cutie, Flaming Lips, US Girls, Sudan Archives, Japanese Breakfast, and Yo La Tengo. And that is not even an exhaustive list.

Even Paul McCartney -- after "getting over himself" (post-Beatles) and his concerns about having Yoko in the studio, and actually listening to and learning about what Yoko had been doing, by that time for decades -- came around. In a 2013 interview in Rolling Stone -- when asked about Yoko vis-à-vis both her music and her art -- his simple two-word answer was "She's badass!" McCartney, who had been a fan of modern composers (particularly John Cage and Karlheinz Stockhausen) since 1967, finally realized that what Yoko had been doing vocally was beyond even the Beatles' knowledge and understanding of music theory, music history, and the avant-garde movements she was either contributing to or helping to pioneer.

The average person has even less knowledge or understanding of the many avant-garde art movements, primarily of the 50s, 60s, and 70s, ranging from non-art to interactive art, from Dada to Primitivism, and from Imagism and Minimal Art to Fluxus and beyond.

Some of the artists who recognized the importance of Yoko's work -- and, again, some of whom considered her a pioneer in some of those avant-garde art movements, and many of whom either collaborated with her or participated in shared exhibitions -- include Victor Vaserely, Jasper Johns, Andy Warhol, Louise Nevelson, Keith Haring, Frank Stella, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Robert Mapplethorpe, Kenny Scharf, Ai Weiwei, Guerilla Girls, and Laura Bates. This, too, is far from an exhaustive list. It should also be noted that Yoko is listed among the 100 most important modern artists by Contemporary Art Magazine, in a grouping that includes Jasper Johns, Robert Rauschenberg, Andy Warhol, Pablo Picasso, Nam June Paik, Richard Serra, Marcel Duchamp, David Hockney, Paul Klee, Joan Miro, Max Ernst, Alexander Calder, Damien Hirst, Cy Twombly, Claes Oldenburg, Louise Bourgeois, and Cindy Sherman.

The biography is written by friend and "insider" David Sheff, who was literally "in the room" beginning in September 1980 (just prior to John's assassination), and in, out, and/or around for almost the entirety of Yoko's life after John was killed. So he is perfectly positioned to write this book: he has no interest in the salaciousness, sensationalism, myth-making, or gossip of other books about John and/or The Beatles, particularly vis-à-vis Yoko. Rather, this is a beautiful, well-written, fair-minded, yet not fawning* portrait of a woman who has seen her share of heartache, accomplished extraordinary things in both music and art, adding to the lexicons of both, and yet has been vilified continuously for over 60 years. *(E.g., he takes her greatly to task for her reliance on divination, astrology, numerology, tarot, and other "occult" obsessions).

The book is separated into three parts. The first tells of Yoko's childhood and early life, up to the time she met John. It relates how she survived the bombing of Tokyo as a very young child; of having emotionally (and sometimes physically) distant parents; of having to not only engage in primary and continual self-care (as opposed to parental care), but also care of her younger brother, and many other (often depressing) aspects that made Yoko the quiet, mostly introverted, and seemingly inscrutable person she became. It was in her late single and early double digits that she first started (unwittingly) forming the philosophy that would guide her for the rest of her life: "imagine" -- a word and concept she used continuously throughout her life and art, long before she met John and he co-opted the word for the song. [N.B. John finally admitted that the song was not simply co-written by Yoko, but was inspired by her ideas, and for which Yoko was finally given official co-writing credit.] The explanation of her use of "imagine" as a broad-based life-long philosophy is not just a high point of the book, but arguably the single most important thing we learn about her art, music, and approach to life.

The second part takes us from her first meeting John in 1966 to his assassination in 1980. Not only does Sheff finally and absolutely debunk the myth of her "breaking up The Beatles," placing the blame for that primarily on John (for good and proven reasons), but also on the "bigger picture" of what was happening at the time among the Beatles -- musically, legally and otherwise.

As an aside, regarding the break-up of the band, Sheff "ups the ante" and makes a remarkably cogent case for Yoko having saved the Beatles -- and that, without her, we might not have had the White Album, Yellow Submarine, Let It Be, or Abbey Road. This is because John first began seriously considering quitting the group after the release of Magical Mystery Tour. This was when tensions in the band began to grow exponentially, and John was becoming increasingly morose in the studio during the writing and recording of the White Album (a fact confirmed by George Martin) -- an album that was less a collaboration of four musicians (though some songs were) than the Beatles serving as studio musicians for each others' songs. We learn that the only reason John was willing to remain in the band was that he had Yoko with him at all times, and that her love and calming presence (for him) overrode his greatly increasing unhappiness, dissatisfaction and frustration with the band and the growing tensions among them (those not related to Yoko's presence). In this regard, Sheff suggests, had she not been there (and rarely mentioned is that the first time she was present in the studio was not for the Let It Be sessions, but the "Fool on the Hill" session, almost two years before), it is entirely possible that John would have quit the Beatles in early 1968 -- leaving us without the group's last four albums.

So, Yoko not only did not cause the break-up of the band (and again, the facts show that the primary cause was John, even if Yoko was a quasi-catalyst), but may well have prevented it from breaking up for an additional two years by "preventing" John from leaving earlier.

Importantly, perhaps even critically, Sheff also provides an in-depth context of the growing relationship between John and Yoko that has been sorely missing from any published work about John. It is contradictorily simple and complex, with both enormous love and serious tensions, but with both of them always "erring" on the side of love, acceptance, and progression.

The third part is Yoko's life after John's death -- and is so much more interesting, informative, and eye-opening than I am guessing anyone could possibly…imagine. While focusing primarily on her art and music -- as well as her relationship with Sean, and her understandable ongoing heartbreak over John's death -- it also tells of death threats, thefts, betrayals by people close to her, and the hiring of bodyguards, among many other (sadly) necessary aspects of her post-John life.

But it is her growing contributions to music and art during this period -- and the growing realization by a much greater number of people (particularly those in the arts, but also the public at large) -- that continues to be the main point: she never stopped creating, never stopped experimenting, never stopped adding to the lexicons of both music and art. She was relentless in the face of sexism, racism, and any other "isms" that attempted to get in her way. In this regard, Paul McCartney was more correct than even he knows when he said: "She's badass!"

It's a damn shame that the people who really should read this book -- the Yoko-haters, those who still believe she "broke up the Beatles" (a myth that has been debunked countless times by everyone including the Beatles themselves, but simply refuses to die), those who believe that her vocals were nothing more than dissonant caterwauling, those who claim she made no contributions to the art world and only became famous because she was married to a Beatle, etc. -- are the very people who are not going to read it. And even if they did, it probably would not change very many minds -- so ingrained is their hatred, ignorance and/or racism -- nor would many (most?) understand the significant degree to which she contributed to both the art and music worlds -- in the latter case, both rock/pop and avant-garde -- and that she had been doing so for more than a decade before she met John Lennon.

David Sheff has written an informative, substantive, readable, and important biography of one of the 20th century's most wrongly maligned but most important and talented women -- a woman who never stopped creating and pushing artistic boundaries, and expressing love, peace, and acceptance even in the face of nearly continuous vilification and vitriol. A woman who combined art and activism, and in doing so progressed both into new and important places, and who refused to give in to the negativity that often surrounded her. Sheff has given us the Yoko we never knew -- the true, real, "exposed" woman of love, peace, and art -- but the Yoko we needed to know. And in doing so, he has done an enormous service; one that goes well beyond the printed words on the pages, sometimes even getting right to the soul of this sad but magnificent woman.

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Louis Armstrong Lives!

Gary Lucas — Mon, 09 Jun 2025 14:49:26 +0000

Louis Armstrong Lives! Gary Lucas June 9, 2025 - 10:49

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Theater Review

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regional theater

Wali Jamal as Louis Armstrong in Satchmo at the Waldorf

SATCHMO AT THE WALDORF
by Terry Teachout
Schoolhouse Theater
Croton Falls, NY

"You know you can't play anything on a horn that Louis hasn't played."—Miles Davis.

I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Wali Jamal's towering one-man performance as Louis Armstrong in Terry Teachout's impressive distillation of the life of the iconic trumpet player in his powerful one-act play, Satchmo at the Waldorf, at the beautiful Schoolhouse Theater in Croton Falls, NY.

Marking the 40th anniversary of this venerable theater, the play was directed with skill and grace by Bram Lewis. I found Jamal riveting—his performance conveying all the pain and joy of the universe as Armstrong ruminates backstage before one his final performances on all the ups and downs and racial stigmas he had to overcome to eventually play at what some might conceive as one of the most prestigious gigs available to any musician anywhere, the tony Waldorf Astoria. Jamal not only nails Louis' tragicomic persona, he also does a neat turn playing two other characters who loomed large in the life of jazz master Armstrong—his longtime manager Joe Glaser, a wise-cracking mobbed up manager from Chicago who rescued Armstrong at one point from deep debt and helped grease the wheels of his later career by insisting he cover the Broadway standard "Hello Dolly" (which Armstrong hated, but whose recording of which knocked The Beatles for the first time off their #1 perch on the Billboard singles chart); and icy elegant shades-sporting Father of Cool Miles Davis, who praises Louis' astonishing playing but dismisses his onstage grinning persona as basically an act of minstrelsy designed to cater to the plantation fantasies of his mainly white audience.

That Wali Jamal can transition so fluently from one character's voice to another and inhabit the souls of all three individuals without missing a beat is astonishing. That he can so winningly convey all the contradictions that went into the making of the great Armstrong, who reacts and wrestles out loud with the voices of Glaser and Davis, revealing all the many complexities that went into the making of this American Jazz Master, makes for terrific theater. The late Terry Teachout, a formidable cultural critic, jazz buff, and author of several must-read biographies of Duke Ellington and Armstrong himself, proves himself a dramatist of the first rank in this compelling one-act and his play which encapsulates a lot of biographical detail in the service of the Armstrong's private backstage reveries is able to bring the audience to tears by the end.

All the bold statements, contradictions, turbulent emotions, and love/hate relationships that mark the steady rise and inevitable decline of a great artist are touched on here as Pops declaims his own oral history into an oversized prop tape recorder bearing witness to 50-plus years of consummate music-making.

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Trust Issue

Millree Hughes — Mon, 09 Jun 2025 02:31:31 +0000

Trust Issue Millree Hughes June 8, 2025 - 22:31

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Art Review

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painter

"Pond with Early Snow III," 42" x 38"

Mary Temple: Rough in the Distant Glitter
Pamela Salisbury Gallery
Hudson, NY
May 17 - June 15, 2025

"Devoid of locus, there is nothing to objectify." Nagarjuna (2nd C)

It's another important time for painters. Digital Art, Photography, and Video Art have all suffered because of social media. We have endured so many ghastly lies and had so many useless products foisted on us that all remote artwork feels untrustworthy. Anything with a physical quality or that is as unlike a phone image as possible is true.

With a landscape painting, you feel as though you are witnessing a genuine response to a real place. You are looking at a different place, in a different time, asking yourself, "Whose eyes am I looking through?"

Temple mixes abstraction and figuration approaches together. Or rather, certain modes of abstraction are employed to convey space. Different artists and times come to your eye as you pass over the surface. A Whitten-like smear, an occluded Guston blodge, a treacley Mitchell line. Compactified dimensions whose works are revealed across a small surface.

It also happens along the Z axis. She situates the viewer a certain number of paces away from the painting—the place where it coalesces. The closer you get, the more it disintegrates into abstraction.

It's one of the many dualities of this show. Hot/cold, light/shadow, close/far. The blue and the orange. One representing the physical, the other representing light, the évanescent.

These landscape and seascape paintings are mostly empty. There are no obvious stand-ins for the figure, like a landform or a lone tree. Snowy branches bend ant-like arms, creating an empty frame.

"Pond with Early Snow III" increases the chromatic value of different parts to distract your attention from the whole. The snow obscures areas of the scene. The water, the land, and the sky share colours. Everything teeters on the edge. It's all part of dematerializing the subject.

Campfire in the Snow 1

Her "Campfire in Snow I" painting finally fills the space, acting as a mediator between the blue and the orange. You are no longer looking into a clearing but are focused on an object and an activity. The flame crackles in swathes of hot colour, melting the blue. The broken branches take on a broken figure appearance, like an abstracted body.

Mary's paintings work well on social media. They transform well into posts. But there are certain colours that are not photographable. The contrast is pushed for the phone image, which limits colour possibilities. Texture can't be seen either. You have to turn up because these are paintings that demand your presence.

Thank you Millree, this is…

Thank you Millree, this is so gorgeously written. 🙏🏼

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Ethereal Is Not A Dirty Word

Robert Cochrane — Thu, 05 Jun 2025 01:28:55 +0000

Ethereal Is Not A Dirty Word Robert Cochrane June 4, 2025 - 21:28

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Music Review

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singer songwriter

Ania: Secret Garden (AniaBmusic)

A strangely eclectic sensibility is evidenced on Ania Brzozowska's new album, Secret Garden, her second. Although Polish, a Celtic flavour pervades, a breath of Irish mellowness and charm with her delicate mastery of piano and violin. Assured and elegantly underscored, as though Tori Amos were in cahoots with Enya, you'll have an idea of the classicism at play. Not that Ania is a mere pastiche of both or either, she brings her distinctive grace and style to the ears of the listener. There's a flawlessly other-worldly feel to her music, but it remains grounded, earthed by sublime musicality. Her image is wrapped in floral motifs, and musical signatures sourced from other times, an approach of ancient modernity. Understated yet encompassing.

"Secret Garden" is a perfect opener, featuring a delicately picked harp. Shades of Caroline Lavelle echo and beguile this slow-burning epic. Ania's voice is subtle, never cloying on account of possession of an earnest earthiness. This haunting madrigal soothes the listener into her otherworldly vistas. If rolling piano motifs and subtle violin lines resonate, here is the perfect ticket with all its gifts of haunting refinement. Mannered but exquisitely accessible.

With "Another Day," there is a sparseness of piano, a lament that holds the delicate space it inhabits with a melancholy ambiance. As it builds, via a sadness of violin, the sense of restraint is palpable, as her vocals effortlessly glide, whilst underscoring and harnessing the fluidity of the song.

"Another week gone by

And not a minute too soon

Another passerby

Staring up at the moon."

"Reach My Shore" is a slow waltz imbued with a gossamer moodiness. A swirling of bells and piano, it broods and aches with gentle drama. A small slice of reflective perfection, perfectly judged and elegantly delivered. This aching beauty continues with "Autumn Leaves," a perfect capturing of longing, absence, and regret as winter draws in. An exercise in brevity, it has an icy warmth in all its piano-strummed ghostliness and sorrow.

"I see your lips, the summer kisses

The sun-burned hands I used to hold"

A brave song to cover arrives in the form of Chris Isaak's masterpiece of failure and fatalism, "Wicked Game," bedecked in baroque refinement with delicate violin lines, it weaves a hypnotic web upon the listener's heart. Stripped of its lyrics until the last few seconds, she allows it to exist as a classical piece, an astute departure that works intuitively and eloquently. '"Love Songs" possesses the timbre and ache of early Kate Bush. Measured yet gently soaring, neatly scored with piano in a dance with barely borne violin and swaying vocals.

"Sound Of Silence" is one of those songs you'd assume should be left untouched, especially given Disturbed and their manful reinvention of it in recent years. Ania takes it back to a more medieval feel—a sense of older, more innocent and magical times, but with a world-weary aspect. As the violin rises softly over the elegantly picked guitar, there is restraint within the longing expressed, those elements of profound sadness. Dramatic in an understated way, it saunters and sails to a conclusion of gentle resignation and decline—a minstrel in a gallery conceit.

"En Aranjuez Con Tu Amor" by the Spanish composer Rodrigo, from 1939, becomes an epic soundtrack of ambitious proportions, awash with cello and violin, and blessed with an exquisite vocal take. Ethereal yet supremely magnificent via a certain consideration of restraint, it swirls and cascades, slowly building without ever bursting forth till the entire affair gently slips away. A precise and elegant revisiting. It closes the vinyl version, which is a thing of elegant beauty in its splattered elegance. What closes the CD, the acoustic version of an earlier song, "Reach My Shore," proves a perfect exit piece of vulnerable simplicity that encases the eloquent concision of her voice. Ania is a singer who is not fearful of space because she knows exactly how to occupy and harness it, a trait she shares with Norwegian songstress Cecilie Anna. All seems effortless, which is an aspect of the magic involved.

Ania could be described as Pre-Raphaelite for modern times. An elegant soul with a sublime lightness of touch. Her visual presentation has a floral intensity that suits and complements her deceptively gentle sound. With this album, her secret garden should be a secret widely shared and poorly kept—a breeze from the past with modern times in mind.

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There’s An App for That

Chet Kozlowski — Wed, 04 Jun 2025 12:14:54 +0000

There’s An App for That Chet Kozlowski June 4, 2025 - 08:14

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Film Review

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action thriller

I almost titled this review Tacky Driver—never waste a good pun—but I decided it would be too cheeky and untrue to the material. Turns out Self Driver is a clever, original film made on a shoestring budget that deserves your attention.

A character identified only as “D” is at wit’s end. He has a new baby, lots of expenses, and relies on an Uber-ish ride-share app called VRMR to bring in money. He drives a shitty car (bad AC), works ridiculous hours, and must contend with an array of eccentric passengers. The faceless, soulless app doesn’t care. An agent just tries to get him to upgrade. Then one day, a slick passenger named Nic offers D a chance to sign on to a new app, promising fast money. D demurs at first. “A libertarian,” Nic chuckles. “I like it.” Pretty soon a party girl pukes in D’s back seat. That’s the last straw. D calls Nic.

The new app, Tonomo, has great pay-outs but strict rules. D stands to make a lot of money as long as he follows the prompts. If he doesn’t ask questions, and does everything the app tells him to, he can make a lot more money than with the app he’s been using. Nic tells D that the more “offers” he accepts, the more he makes. But if he refuses an offer, he loses money and possibly the whole gig. “Lastly, and most importantly,” D. stresses, “you have fun.”

Then things go really wonky. D is tasked to pick up all manner of shady characters clearly involved in the commission of crimes. One tosses him a wrapped gun-shaped package and mysterious pink sugar cubes as a “pick me up.” D realizes he is driving what is essentially a getaway car. The electronic prompts become more demanding and personal. “Discard the bag,” it intones. “Move to the back.” And it isn’t long before Tonomo is instructing D to do the crimes himself.

Director Michael Pierro keeps it all in close. His movie embodies what he calls its “guerilla spirit:” most of the time his camera is trained on D’s increasingly concerned face or action draped in shadows. As director, writer, and editor, Mr. Pierro brings a manic energy to the proceedings. Under it all is Antonio Naranjo’s playful yet ominous score.

As D, Nathanael Chadwick maintains a steady gaze and impatiently clicking tongue as he monitors the goings-on in the backseat. We see his passengers in a funny, rapid-fire montage: they bicker, they complain, they pontificate, they try to get out of the fare. Other cast members stand out: Adam Goldhammer as Nic, Catt Filippov as Angel, Reece Preesley and Lauren Welchner as a pair of traffickers. Stone-faced Harold Tausch’s bit ends with his blood on the backseat.

Self Driver is a techno nerd’s dream of a thriller. What could be a gimmicky contrivance is, in fact, a small, ambitious film that would make a good watch on a Saturday night at home.

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Self Driver. Directed by Michael Pierro. 2024. From Cinephobia Releasing. Runtime 89 minutes.

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What's In A Name?

Kathleen Cullen — Fri, 30 May 2025 15:18:06 +0000

What's In A Name? Kathleen Cullen May 30, 2025 - 11:18

Topics

Art Review

Tags

group show

Artist: Nora Turato. Installation view. Courtesy of No Name, Paris Photographer: Thomas Lannes

Visiting the Paris art scene, a gallery titled No Name, featuring art in a show called “A Hundred Ways to Disappear,” proves to be anything but nondescript. An academic sense of art history, combined with innovative curation, left this reviewer wanting to know the details of how and why the selections were made. No Name director and curator Léo Panico was gracious enough to talk with me.

Kathleen Cullen: No Name gallery is in Paris, so let’s start with an overview of the program and the focus of the gallery to familiarize our Culture Catch readers. Also, please describe your role and why you decided to add the curation of this show?

Léo Panico: No Name is a project space founded by the art advisor Patricia Marshall in 2022 with the idea of inviting artists, critics collector and curators to collaborate with us on curating shows, to see what the dialogue between our advisory perspective could be, leaning on the post conceptual and minimalist side of contemporary art, and the one from other professional from the artworld. It requires from both sides–us and our guests–a true desire to collaborate. We, for instance, worked with the Mexican-based artist Dario Escobar, the curator Daniel Birnbaum, the movie producer Jacqui Davies, and the French art critic Armelle Leturcq.

Most of the artists exhibited have rarely been shown in France; we generally collaborate with foreign galleries, allowing their artists to reach a new audience.

PIERRE ALLAIN & STEFANA McCLURE. Installation view. Courtesy of No Name. Photographer: Thomas Lannes

This exhibition is a turning point as it is the first we're doing without inviting someone as co-curator. I wanted to work for a long time on the theme of absence and disappearance as a tempting response to the overabundance of images and words surrounding us. Absence as a refusal, a soft resistance where what is suggested prevails over what is given, the part prevailing over the whole.

KC: You use this quote to open up the information about the show. What does it reference? Did the quote help inspire you, or was it a discovery after you arrived at the theme?

“To look at what you wouldn’t look at, to hear what you wouldn’t listen to, to be attentive to the banal, to the ordinary, to the infra-ordinary” - Paul Virilio

LP: It was a late discovery. This quote reflects on the possibility of looking at things differently, and being alert, more vigilant to what is around. It is hard not to overlook artworks, it requires effort and time from the viewers, especially when the works claim a multi-aspect, which is the case for some of the works in this show. This quote is also a reference to the concept of Inframince developed by Marcel Duchamp in the 1930s that questions the limits between the visible and the invisible, the material and the immaterial, art and non-art. This notion is at the center of the exhibition.

KC: The show contains drawings, media, paintings, sculpture, and even audio. Please tell us how what is really such a wide array of styles all comes under the heading of “ A Hundred Ways To Disappear”?

LP: The idea was not to display an exhaustive list of all possible mediums, despite the title of the show! I was more interested in the possible connections and dialogue between each work. A number of them are related to language and its failure to seize our reality. For instance, Stefana McClure's works from the Films on Paper series, in which all the subtitles of a film are written by the artist on tracing paper and then superimposed and transferred onto a colored medium, result in two illegible white lines on a colored screen. A single image contains an entire film, whose content is unknown to us since all the letters are merging to create two almost continuous and unreadable lines. The meaning is here covered by a layering of words and sentences, as if our desires to know and to always add more could only result in an even more partial understanding of things. Pierre Allain’s sound piece compiles testimonies of people unsuccessfully trying to remember the name of a movie that traumatized them. The work is titled Tip of My Tongue and is about this feeling of lacking words and memory failing us. Nora Turato (image top) employs expressions or sentences that are now empty shells, as they have almost lost any meaning after being so overused.

KC: Since the very nature of art is to be seen, heard, or in some way experienced, disappearing seems almost like the last goal you would have. But when I see the transparent sculpture of Olga Balema, one is suddenly aware of the idea. Can you describe how the work of the artists featured is part of the curatorial choices?

Olga Balema & Jeronimo Ruedi. Installation view. Courtesy of No Name. Photographer: Thomas Lannes

LP: Olga Balema’s work was essential in the conception of the show. For me, her work is redefining what sculpture could be, in a very modest yet powerful way. The reflective and transparent surface of the work almost disappears in the space, but is inviting its environment into it at the same time. A single ray of light transforms it and then irradiates the room. The sculpture evolves throughout both the day and the visitor's displacement in the space. Olga’s work, among others in the show, explores these circumventing strategies, on how not to be upfront and give all the keys for their understanding at once.

KC: I think the show presents an almost ideal challenge to the viewers in that the work may not always be traditional, but at the same time, command attention no matter how subtle - would you agree? Is the challenge part of the point?

LP: I like this idea of a challenge when looking at an artwork. No Name is located in a bourgeois apartment and has a strong presence, with its marble chimneys and moldings on the walls. It requires one to have a significant curatorial perspective if you don’t want to fall into the showroom category.

Some of the works in the show have a substantial presence despite their minimalist and barely visible aspect, such as the large work by Michel Parmentier titled 5 avril 1991 and made of white pastel stripes on tracing paper. The result is a 300 cm x 300 cm (120 x 120 in.) piece manifesting its aura in the room while almost dissolving into the wall. Same with Latifa Echakhch’s Erratum 2004-2013 piece, made of 350 broken tea glasses shattered on the floor. The tea glasses are a symbol of Moroccan culture, the artist’s birth country. Here, lying on the floor, the glass shards form a cutting reflection on cultural heritage, colonialism, hospitality, and femininity.

Most of the works are playing with the notion of afterwardsness, as if what we were seeing were the traces and spectral shapes of past forms.

KC: You have really worked to educate the viewer with a variety of artists' perspectives. Can you elaborate on this with some examples from the show?

LP: This is what makes No Name an exciting project, bringing artists to an audience that is sometimes not familiar with them and that we want to support, in a space that is the opposite of a white cube.

LATIFA ECHAKHCH Erratum, 2004-2013 broken tea glasses scattered on the floor variable dimensions courtesy of the artist

We try to create dialogues between works from confirmed artists and younger ones. In the show, a video of Paulo Nazareth crossing the border between Mexico and the US while disappearing in the sand dunes is facing a sculpture by Matthias Odin. This sculpture consists of an assemblage of various objects related to the domestic sphere that he collected while living in precarious conditions. These works are two different perspectives on migration and roaming, one from one state to another, and one on what it is to be a stranger in your own city, both questioning notions of belonging and domesticity.

KC: Having seen the work in the show, I can attest to the impact of the theme. How has the finished product impacted you as the curator?

LP: I’m surprised to see how all the works continue to grow on you when you share the space with them for some time, and how new dialogues between them are emerging, thanks to the dialogue they allow with visitors. I now see how Berenice Olmedo’s work is related to the classical history of sculpture. The work we have in the show reminds me of a female torso from the Parthenon, Iris, the winged messenger goddess, now shown at the British Museum, but almost as a negative imprint of this classical torso.

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A Hundred Ways to Disappear
No Name
3 Place de l'Alma
75008 Paris
April 11 - June 24, 2025
Instagram
contact: leo@marshallfineart.com

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Tough Enough

Chet Kozlowski — Fri, 30 May 2025 13:29:32 +0000

Tough Enough Chet Kozlowski May 30, 2025 - 09:29

Topics

Film Review

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drama

Moviegoers expecting the Irish film Swing Bout to be a violent boxing movie will instead find a gripping ensemble drama with sharp writing and strong performances. The violence is in the hearts of men (and women) who are working toward their own desperate ends. FYI: A “swing bout” is a filler boxing match, which happens on short notice, when the main event ends prematurely. Swing Bout is in keeping with that: most of the action takes place in locker rooms, toilets, and offices. Fighters train and preen and wait for a chance that may not come.

Everybody’s got an angle in Swing Bout. Everybody wants something, be it fame or fortune or simply to survive. All the players, those gloved-up and otherwise, spew sweat, vitriol, and self-doubts.

The boxing ring is run by two brothers: coke-snorting Jack (Ben Condron) and beleaguered Micko (Frank Prendergast) who have run afoul of gangsters. They have much riding on the outcome of the fights. New fighter Toni (Ciara Berkeley) is anxious to prove her pugilistic gifts against all contenders. “I’m gonna be world champ,” she crows to her manager, the sexy and duplicitous Emma (Sinead O’Riordan). Emma replies, “Everyone’s going to be world champ until the real world champ starts punching their face in.” Toni’s next fight is against her dreadlocked nemesis Vicki (Chrissie Cronin) and Emma tells her to take a fall in round two. Toni objects: “I’m better than this.” Emma’s reply: “We are nobodies. We’re swing bout fighters.” But Emma complicates matters by being in cahoots with Gary (Gerard Kearney) after carrying on with Micko while fucking Jack… well, you get the picture.

Having this many balls in the air requires control, and director Maurice O’Carroll is up to the task. He keeps his camera steady, either gliding along next to characters or rooted midlevel, filming the various clashes in one-shots, heightening the you-are-there authenticity. These scenes expertly ratchet up the tension and subvert the clichés of the genre. Mr. O’Carroll is part of a wave of new Irish films. He’s worked as an editor in TV series and shorts, and his penchant for the long take lays the film’s foundation. This is his first feature.

Swing Bout centers on Toni, played by Ciara Berkeley. Ms. Berkeley is tall and elegant, more suited to Downton Abbey than the ring. Her ferocity as Toni comes as a surprise. Toni punches the air incessantly and blots out noise with big headphones. She bolsters herself with a motivational tape: “The one who looks outside dreams; the one who looks inside awakes,” intones the recorded voice of the Guru (Jack Connors). Toni is dismissed by one character as “a criminal.” To her, boxing is the path to redemption.

But the story isn’t just Toni’s. This is a true ensemble, with many standout performances. Ben Condron is electric as Jack, peacocking in a shiny suit and new cowboy boots. Mary Malicious (Megan Haly) is an able foil. She’s addlebrained from a fight, suffering the blows that we anticipate for Toni. Chrissie Cronin brings bravado and vulnerability to Vicki, who spits and growls but wants most to not disappoint her father and manager Bomber (Johnny Elliot), once a boxer himself. Flann (Baz Black) is a totally tattooed fighter insisting on his shot; his short scene sets the stakes and lingers in the mind.

Swing Bout resembles a stage play in its economy of space while packing a real wallop. And yet, no real fisticuffs come until the climax, despite the constant drone of muffled cheers and blow-by-blow commentary of the fights in the other room.

___________________________

Swing Bout. Directed by Maurice O’Carroll. 2024. From Orion Productions. Runtime 90 minutes. On digital platforms.

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Who Is The Mystery Girl?

Robert Cochrane — Thu, 29 May 2025 00:57:32 +0000

Who Is The Mystery Girl? Robert Cochrane May 28, 2025 - 20:57

Topics

Literary Review

Tags

fiction

"Picture This," as Debbie Harry so artfully implored.

A young girl leaves her Northern metropolis, Liverpool, for 1960s London, in the midst of revolution and swinging. She writes reviews for music magazines and pens a shocking novel that was published in 1968 via the respected firm of Jonathan Cape. Feted and reviewed by the likes of Auberon Waugh, in 1969, Baby Love, a title borrowed from the Supremes' hit, became a hugely successful movie, retaining the same title as the book, which then appeared in paperback in both the UK and the US. After such controversy and success, Tina Chad Christian looked set to take the Seventies by storm. She hasn't been heard from since.

There are many flash-in-the-pan successes that clutter the shelves of bookstores and thrift shops. They can be purchased for precious little long after their brief days of glory. Such cannot be said for Baby Love. Copies are scarce, and when they do appear, they command at least $300 in hardback. She isn't a name, in reality, a pseudonym, but a market exists for her sole work, a tract recognised by dealers and those that seek it out. The price and scarcity restrict it from being widely known. Even the few who wish to read it won't have the wherewithal to justify the reading risk of affording a copy.

The film is better remembered than the work from which it was sourced, and remains available. It was the comeback vehicle for British '50s starlet Diana Dors. A non-speaking part where she ghosts the proceedings in a series of poignant flashbacks, as a suicide, the mother of the central character, Luci.

Baby Love was the film debut, aged fifteen of future blonde horror actress Linda Hayden, whose Lolita-like appetites make for uneasy viewing. She auditioned topless for the role. It isn't a tale penned by a middle-aged male novelist, but by a young woman who has lived the story she transcribes, but with raw honesty and nerve shattering gusto.

The film remains a wonderful encapsulation of societal norms in transition. English comedian Dick Emery plays it straight as a lascivious, but extremely pervy friend of the family. Hayden brings a subtle knowingness to the role of Luci, the girl adopted by an old flame of her dead mother as an act of largesse, legacy and kindness. She arrives from the North to a well-to-do London suburb, initially out of her depth, but perfectly adept at reading the vulnerabilities of those inhabiting her new surroundings. She lures her new guardian's wife into a lesbian affair, seduces and nearly kills his son, and has a bold attempt at bedding him. A role played with brilliant, understated bafflement by the late-Keith Barron.

The book is grittier than the film and doesn't remotely read like a first novel in structure, densely plotted and deeply disturbing, with Luci obviously damaged goods, but possessed with an assuredness of character that doesn't make her a victim, more of a creator of them. There's even permission to quote from a Beatles song on the blurb page, another perfect Sixties embellishment. I have viewed a signed copy where Chad Christian reveals in her neatly rendered dedication that the novel was written entirely from her own experience. A confessional catharsis. It certainly reads as such, even if it is adorned in an Aubrey Beardsley-inspired dust jacket of a young girl's face. And it remains relevant, vibrant, and compelling, in the way an emotional trainwreck in motion can be. A beguiling read that merits belated reassessment, whilst brilliantly skating against the grain of current social constraints and taboos.

Linda Hayden recalls Tina Chad Christian's fleetingly brief appearance on the film set, a memory of a frail young girl who only drank distilled water. A trait related to a chronic childhood condition, the author in question mentioned in her interview with Auberon Waugh for the Telegraph Magazine in 1968. She comes across as strangely prim, almost puritanical, having penned a novel that exhibits none of those traits.

Of the first five novelists interviewed for the feature, she was the most immediately successful, but the sole one to never publish another book. It is time for Tina to take a long, belated bow, be that via the plundered memories of those who knew her, or as the woman that the girl became.

A copy of the book is with Faber, who is considering it as a possibility.

It remains a shocking read.